In the manicured lawns and cookie-cutter colonials of Chicago’s affluent West Loop, where playground chatter masks the grind of corporate ladders and PTA power plays, a single text message unravels everything. “Playdate at 1800 Crescent Hollow Road—Carrie will watch them.” It’s a innocuous ping on Marissa Irvine’s phone, sent from a number she assumes is her new friend Jenny’s. But when she pulls up to the address after a grueling day sealing multimillion-dollar deals, the door swings open to a bewildered stranger. No playdate. No Milo, her five-year-old son with the gap-toothed grin and endless questions about dinosaurs. No trace of the boy who was supposed to be safe in a neighbor’s care. Just a void that swallows her screams and spits out suspicion. Premiering on Peacock on November 6, 2025, All Her Fault—the eight-episode limited series adapted from Andrea Mara’s 2021 bestseller—transforms this primal parental dread into a labyrinth of lies, where every ally is a potential adversary and the truth is a blade turned inward. Starring Sarah Snook as the unraveling Marissa, alongside Dakota Fanning’s steely Jenny and Jake Lacy’s enigmatic Peter, this thriller doesn’t just hook you; it drags you under, forcing you to question: In the blame game of modern motherhood, who’s really at fault?

From its opening frames—a frantic Marissa barreling through rush-hour traffic, her AirPods jammed in as she juggles a client call—the series plunges viewers into the pressure cooker of high-achieving suburbia. Created and written by Megan Gallagher, whose sharp scripts for Wolf and Suspicion honed her knack for domestic dynamite, All Her Fault clocks in at just under seven hours of taut, bingeable tension. Directed in halves by Minkie Spiro (3 Body Problem, Dead to Me) and Kate Dennis (The Handmaid’s Tale, New Amsterdam), the show masterfully toggles between sun-dappled school gates and shadowy interrogation rooms, its cinematography—lensed in Melbourne’s sun-drenched suburbs standing in for Chicago’s elite enclaves—evoking the glossy unease of Big Little Lies laced with the forensic chill of Sharp Objects. But where those predecessors leaned on ensemble sprawl, All Her Fault keeps its focus laser-sharp on the women at war with themselves and each other, peeling back the myth of the “having it all” mom until all that’s left is raw, exposed nerve.

Sarah Snook, fresh off her Emmy-winning reign as Shiv Roy in Succession—and a Tony for her one-woman whirlwind in The Picture of Dorian Gray—delivers what might be her most visceral turn yet as Marissa. No longer the ice-queen schemer, Snook channels a woman whose polished facade cracks like fine china under the weight of unimaginable loss. We first meet her as the epitome of controlled chaos: a self-made wealth manager at Blackhorn Capital, barking orders into her phone while mentally mapping Milo’s after-school itinerary. “I built this life brick by brick,” she snaps at her assistant in Episode 1, her Australian lilt sharpening into something feral. But when Milo vanishes—snatched not from a dark alley but a supposed safe haven—the performance pivots to something primal. Snook’s Marissa isn’t a flawless heroine; she’s a storm of contradictions, second-guessing every late night at the office, every hurried kiss goodbye. In one gut-wrenching scene midway through, as searchlights sweep the neighborhood, she claws at her husband’s shirt, whispering, “Was it me? Did I make him disappear?” It’s a moment that lingers, Snook’s eyes—wide with terror, brimming with self-loathing—mirroring the audience’s own creeping doubts.

Opposite her, Dakota Fanning—whose child-star glow has evolved into a formidable adult intensity seen in The Alienist and Once Upon a Time in Hollywood—embodies Jenny Kaminski with a coiled grace that masks volcanic rage. As head of marketing at Marissa’s firm and mother to Milo’s classmate Leo, Jenny is the “perfect” friend: yoga-toned, Instagram-curated, with a nanny roster longer than her husband’s poker losses. But Fanning infuses her with subtle fractures—a twitch in her smile during PTA small talk, a flicker of envy when Marissa lands the big promotion. When the finger of blame points to her hired help, Carrie (Sophia Lillis, the haunted heart of It and Dungeons & Dragons: Honor Among Thieves), Jenny’s facade splinters. “I vetted her! Three references, background check—the works!” she hisses to Marissa in a rain-soaked parking lot, their alliance fraying like wet silk. Fanning and Snook’s chemistry is electric; their joint interviews post-premiere buzz with off-screen camaraderie, Snook calling Fanning her “anchor in the chaos,” while Fanning praises Snook’s “fearless vulnerability” that made their on-set breakdowns feel cathartic.

Jake Lacy, the king of charming creeps from The White Lotus and A Friend of the Family, rounds out the core trio as Peter Irvine, Marissa’s commodities-trader husband whose easy grin hides a ledger of quiet resentments. Lacy plays him like a coiled spring—supportive dad by day, propping up his addict sister Lia (Abby Elliott, channeling The Bear‘s frantic energy into sibling codependency) with endless loans, but simmering with the unspoken toll of Marissa’s ambition. In Episode 3’s marital meltdown, as police comb their McMansion for clues, Peter snaps, “You chase deals while I chase tantrums—now look where we are.” It’s a line that lands like a gut punch, Lacy’s boy-next-door facade cracking to reveal the entitlement beneath. Critics have singled him out for the “slipperiest performance,” his Peter’s secrets unfolding like a house of cards: financial black holes from bailing out Lia, a flirtation with Jenny’s slacker husband Richie (Thomas Cocquerel, The Gilded Age), and whispers of an affair that taint the search. “He’s the everyman villain we love to hate,” one reviewer noted, “because deep down, we know he’s in all of us.”

The ensemble deepens the paranoia, turning the suburb into a pressure-sealed terrarium. Michael Peña’s Detective Alcaras is the world-weary cop with a soft spot for fractured families, his gravelly interrogations (Narcos: Mexico intensity dialed to paternal) uncovering jurisdictional red tape that mirrors real-world child abduction bottlenecks. Jay Ellis (Insecure) slinks in as Colin Dobbs, Marissa’s slick colleague with a gambling itch that scratches at the edges of the plot, while Daniel Monks brings quiet pathos to Brian, Peter’s disabled brother trapped in the family’s shadow. Sophia Lillis steals scenes as Carrie, the enigmatic nanny whose wide-eyed innocence curdles into obsession—her arc a tragic spiral fueled by loss and delusion, culminating in a reveal that flips the script on victimhood. Abby Elliott’s Lia adds chaotic warmth, her rehab-fresh fragility clashing with the polished panic around her, and young Duke McCloud imbues Milo with heartbreaking precocity in flashbacks, his cherubic face haunting every frame.

Plot-wise, All Her Fault is a masterclass in misdirection, doling out revelations like poisoned candy. Episode 1’s cold open—Marissa’s arrival at the wrong house, the stranger’s blank stare—sets a hook that doesn’t let go. By Episode 2, the media circus descends: helicopters thumping overhead, neighbors forming prayer circles laced with gossip. “Who leaves a child with a stranger?” a tabloid headline blares, the camera lingering on Marissa’s tear-streaked face as she scrolls through vitriol. The investigation veers from routine to revelatory: Carrie’s fabricated backstory unravels, linking her to a felon ex (Dominic Masterson) and a shady bookie dad (Erroll Shand), but the why eludes everyone. Was it ransom? Revenge against Marissa’s high-flying world? Or something more intimate, tied to the synesthesia that bonds Milo and Carrie in eerie sensory echoes—tasting colors, hearing shapes—that Alcaras clocks as a clue?

Mid-season, the twists accelerate: Peter’s financial freefall exposes ties to Colin’s debts, Jenny’s “perfect” marriage crumbles under Richie’s oblivious neglect, and a baby-switch delusion from Carrie’s past collides with the Irvine family’s buried grief over a lost pregnancy. Flashbacks—shot in desaturated tones—illuminate the cracks: Marissa’s climb from modest roots, Jenny’s resentment of the “mental load” that husbands like Peter and Richie offload with weaponized incompetence. “It’s not just about the kid,” Snook told a press junket. “It’s the invisible labor—the schedules, the guilt, the judgment—that turns love into a battlefield.” By Episode 6, alliances shatter: Marissa confronts Jenny in a school gym turned war room, accusations flying like confetti at a funeral. “You texted me that address! You set this up!” The betrayal stings because it’s plausible, rooted in the microaggressions of mom-friendship: the passive-aggressive group chats, the side-eyes over who “really” works from home.

The finale detonates with a double-barreled gut-wrencher, tying Carrie’s abduction to a hallucinatory conviction that Milo is her stolen child, orchestrated with her ex’s muscle and her father’s desperation. But the true bomb? Peter’s complicity—not murder, but a cover-up born of panic, his “accident” that silences Carrie forever, evidence too thin for charges but thick enough for marital Armageddon. Milo returns, but the family doesn’t: Marissa, empowered by rage, walks away from the empire she built, her final glare at Peter a vow of reckoning. “Justice isn’t handcuffs,” Alcaras tells her, echoing the series’ gut-punch thesis. “It’s surviving the blame.” No tidy bows here; the ending lingers like a bruise, questioning if forgiveness is possible when trust evaporates.

Reception has been a whirlwind, mirroring the show’s own frenzy. Rotten Tomatoes sits at 75% fresh, with critics hailing it as “an addicting watch” for its “emotionally grounded performances” from Snook and Fanning, though some decry the “idiotic plot twists” and “soap opera fluff” that tip into absurdity. Metacritic’s 64/100 signals “generally favorable,” praising the savvy skewering of maternal double standards—”the to-do list that never ends,” as Fanning put it—while Variety laments its “clunky plotting” as a waste of Snook’s talents. Fan reactions? Electric. Social feeds exploded post-premiere, with #AllHerFault trending as viewers binge-confessed: “Binged in one feverish night—couldn’t predict a thing!” one TikToker raved, while Reddit threads dissected the synesthesia red herring like a crime scene. “It’s Gone Girl meets PTA hell,” another posted, echoing the prompt’s Sharp Objects collision. Parents, especially, resonate: “Hit too close— that guilt is real,” a mom-reviewer shared, tissues at the ready.

Behind the scenes, the production hummed with authenticity. Filmed over five weeks in Melbourne starting August 2024—Snook’s Aussie roots making her a natural tour guide for the cast—the vibe was familial, laced with pizza runs and improv-fueled laughs amid the tears. Gallagher, drawing from Mara’s novel (which the author called a “pinch-me” adaptation), consulted child psychologists and abduction survivors to ground the hysteria in truth, though the story’s fictional— no direct real-life inspiration, but a composite of urban legends and the stats that chill: one in six missing kids from playdates unresolved, per advocacy groups. Executive producers like Carnival Films (Downton Abbey) infused prestige polish, while Snook’s dual role as star and EP ensured the women’s voices dominated.

As All Her Fault fades to black on Marissa’s solitary silhouette—stronger, scarred, staring down a new horizon—it’s clear this isn’t just a whodunit; it’s a who-cares-why, a scalpel to the societal script that scripts moms as villains in their own stories. In a fall TV slate bloated with reboots, this limited series cuts through with unfiltered urgency, reminding us that the scariest monsters lurk not in shadows, but in the mirrors we avoid. Whether you’re a parent white-knuckling bedtime routines or a thriller junkie craving curveballs, fire up Peacock and brace yourself. The world might go dark, but Snook’s light—fierce, unflinching—guides you through. Just don’t blame me if you cancel your plans for the night.